


Hypotheticals

by hello_imasalesman



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Dirty Talk, Flirting, M/M, No Spoilers, PWP without Porn, Sexual Tension, chapter 4, its p tame though tbh, they’re very soft noble men i cant make them say filthy things!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-24
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-11-04 17:55:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17902814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hello_imasalesman/pseuds/hello_imasalesman
Summary: “So,” Arthur clears his throat, ashes his cigarette against the ground. He’s leaning back against a tree, behind and off to the side of him. Been standing there for a good while before he spoke, though Charles doesn’t mind.  “What do you like?”Charles huffs out a short, amused noise, barely heard against the rhythmic tap of his hammer against the wagon’s boxing, driving it back into the hub and the frame. “What does that even mean, Arthur?”





	Hypotheticals

“So,” Arthur clears his throat, ashes his cigarette against the ground. He’s leaning back against a tree, behind and off to the side of him. Been standing there for a good while before he spoke, though Charles doesn’t mind. Arthur often does that around camp, watches the others, but unlike John, who complains when Arthur lingers, Charles doesn’t have the same history with him to see it as patronizing. He doesn’t look up from the wagon, though he knows Arthur is talking to him. There’s nobody else around. “What do you like?”

Charles huffs out a short, amused noise, barely heard against the rhythmic tap of his hammer against the wagon’s boxing, driving it back into the hub and the frame. “What does that even mean, Arthur?”

There’s silence. In the distance, he can hear the rest of the gang members move about Shady Belle, though it’s muted and dulled. Everyone’s been walking a little softer, a little quieter. Stifled by the humidity, thicker than the moss growing slow on the trees.

“Let’s say,” Arthur’s voice is real low, and real close, closer than Charles would ever give him the credit of moving so quickly and quietly in for. Against his ear close, warm breath of air to the shell close. If he were to turn, he’d know he’d find him crouched next to him, probably posed as if he were giving advice, and not just chatting away, cigarette hanging between his fingers. “I were to find you one day, out in a bar.” 

Charles pauses his hammering, lowering the mallet halfway. He takes a moment to sweep his long hair from around his neck, where the weight of it is making him sticky, smooths it over his shoulder. He doesn’t turn around. “Where?”

There’s a pause. “Doesn’t matter.” That wasn’t the right answer, though Arthur seems to recover quickly, his voice taking on a husky tone, rasping in a whispered hush, sheets rustling quiet. Mosquito buzz quiet, though it’s not unpleasant to listen to, if Charles is being honest. “Let’s just say, alright?”

“Alright.”

“Let’s say I found you—“ He falters, “in Saint Denis. A little hole in the wall there, if they even got them in a city that big. Nice little saloon.”

Charles doesn’t know why he’d ever be in Saint Denis. But he goes along, though he continues his hammering, holding the wheel firm by the spokes with his other hand. “Sure.”

“Maybe buy you a drink.”

Charles chuckles under his breath. “Generous of you. I’d get you one, too.” Because why wouldn’t he? He would buy a drink for any of he gang. Save maybe Uncle, if only because he’d find a way to turn it into five more on his bill. He pauses, “You know, in this, ah,” Charles snorts. He’s not sure why it’s so funny. “Hypothetical situation.”

Arthur huffs. “Hypothetical.” The word rolls carefully off his tongue, carefully enunciated. Charles can see smoke drifting upward from the corner of his eye. “Big word.”

“I know a few of them.”

“So that’s what you like? ‘Cause I thought you might like something, well, I don’t know.” Charles can hear Arthur’s hand reach up to scratch through his beard. It’s been growing longer in recent days, too busy to get it trimmed, though it looks good on his face. Charles continues hammering. “Maybe if I put a hand on your thigh.”

The swing of his mallet falls off-course, banging wood on wood against the hub band at an awkward angle, in a way that makes a jolt of pain ricochet up his arm, bone-deep. Charles feels his blood pulsating down, into his fingertips, makes them throb and tingle against the wooden handle. The noise seems to echo in his ears. “I can’t do big words.” Arthur continues, his voice directed at the wagon, not at Charles. “Not the smartest, I’ll admit. I leave that kind of stuff to Hosea and Dutch, all that thinkin’. But I got some other ideas.”

Charles swallows. Arthur’s voice is so soft, he doesn’t think to mention that Arthur does plenty of thinking on his own, that he’s smarter than he gives himself credit for. “That so?”

“Mmm.” Arthur hums in agreement. “Like how nice, I imagine, your hair would feel between my fingers.” Charles finally looks at Arthur when he sees him extend a gloved hand out, from the corner of his eye; it’s black leather, gently worn, handmade from some animal Arthur had personally taken down, probably boar. The sound of the material, stiff but supple, creasing as he curls his fingers mid-air, as if to demonstrate. “If I tugged on it, mind, not the kind of way to hurt. But by the root of it.”

Charles breathes through his nose. “I wouldn’t mind that.”

“Thought you wouldn’t.” Arthur keeps his voice low, “Or maybe you wouldn’t mind if I tasted the whiskey off your lips.”

“Maybe, after that drink—“ Charles schools his eyes forward, “Maybe, we’d find each other somewhere private. Somewhere you could,” Charles eyes dart towards Arthur, momentarily, finding a boldness in the way he’s staring elsewhere, and not back at him, “Be a little loud, if you wanted. Tell me more of these ideas you have.”

“Hypothetical.” Arthur says it syllable by syllable- _hy-po-the-tical_ , like his tongue is too-thick in his mouth, rolls it around to decide if he likes the taste of it, or if he’d rather spit it out into the swamp. Arthur reaches out, runs his fingers around the edge of the wheel, admiring the handiwork.

Charles coughs, shifts himself on his knees, trying to alleviate the pressure. There are footsteps approaching. Easy as you please, Arthur sticks his cigarette into his mouth, using both hands to push himself up, palms against his thighs, the kind of groan that rumbles from sore joints through gritted teeth as he does so. Marston has no idea what he walks into; if the air’s any different here, any muggier, any stickier, he doesn’t seem to notice, oblivious to anything but the wood working tools in his hands.

“Well, better get going.” Arthur says it, as casual as he can, and Charles chances a glance over as Marston drops down to a knee next to him. Watches the way Arthur hooks his thumb into the waistband of his work jeans. He’s already turning towards the dilapidated manor, angling his hips away, though Charles can see the way he’s taut across the front.“Won’t want to keep you two from your work.”

“Alright, Arthur.” Charles speaks to receding footfalls. Thinks, maybe, he should look up a quiet bar that rents rooms in Saint Denis. But when he retires to his bedroll, there’s a piece of paper, as if torn from a journal, underneath his pillow. In crisp handwriting there’s an address located in Saint Denis, written neat and tidy, much more solid than theory.

**Author's Note:**

> apologies for spamming the rdr 2 fandom :’’)  
> inspired by someone asking for hcs on Charles, and thinking on how what if Arthur were to just ask Charles that instead...  
> tumblr: @hello-imasalesman


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